


A Lovestory of Pansies And Leek

by JoRaskoph



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, Diagon Alley, Disablity, Face Blindless, First Date, Gen, Porosopagnosia, Summer after the Battle of Hogwarts, Young Love, krazyboutharryginnys Diversify Cannon Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:18:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoRaskoph/pseuds/JoRaskoph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is looking at someone’s face and feeling like coming home—well, it is for most people.<br/>When Neville Longbottom stands waiting in front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour he can’t remember the face of the woman he is waiting for, but he thinks she might be the love of his life.</p><p> </p><p>written for the "diversify canon" challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lovestory of Pansies And Leek

* * *

On the last Saturday in August, Diagon Alley is bustling with shoppers. For once the grey London skies have opened up to show a dazzling blue. The lively crowds and brilliant weather should feel out of place contrasted against abandoned buildings and dusty shop windows, but the excited chatter of children seems to gloss over at least some of the grey spots left after the war; a new term is coming, a new generation of students who have never felt unsafe at Hogwarts.  
  
  
  
A group of adolescents strolls by, giving each other meaningful looks as they talk in hushed tones. He could be mistaken, but Neville Longbottom is fairly certain they are walking in the direction of Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes. A spot clears in the street after the would-be trouble makers have passed and between the constant movement Neville catches sight of a blond man standing very still on the other side of the street.  
  
  
  
The hopeful atmosphere doesn’t seem to transfer to the stranger who stands knitting his hands in the shadows of an abandoned shop; his broad shoulders are sloping and expressive brows are drawn together in a moody frown. With a pang of sympathy Neville looks more closely, dreading to find the somewhat blank look that is seen too often in these last months.  
  
  
  
But the next crowd of busy shoppers obscures the young man from his sight again, and secretly Neville is relieved. Too many days have been tainted by the war, at some point life should go on and that is what he is here for.   
  
  
  
A blonde head appears in the corner of his eye and he jerks his head around. The approaching woman is still a good distance away, too far to make out any distinct features, but already his heart speeds up and the vague unease around his belly button condenses to a heavy knot that tears at his insides. Despite having anxiously waited for this moment he suddenly finds himself wishing she could stay away for just a little longer because he feels a mess and really not prepared to charm anyone.  
  
  
  
Time doesn’t slow down, and the woman is only a few metres away. Her hair is about shoulder-length and now that she’s not hidden behind other shoppers he can see that she is carrying a heavy bag of groceries. A long breath escapes his mouth and the tension slowly recedes from his body.  
  
  
  
She wouldn’t be coming from an errand.  
  
  
  
Just to be sure he keeps his eyes on the woman until she has passed him, then resumes his methodic search of the heads coming towards him. This constant attention has not always been second nature to him and he remembers with a sinking feeling the day he didn’t recognise Luna Lovegood.  
  
  
  
He’d met Luna during her first week of school, when he’d once again gotten lost on his way to class.  
  
  
  
Coming back to Hogwarts always used to take a great deal out of him; his world suddenly transformed with black robes turning everyone into strangers. The castle being a maze of identical stone corridors with hidden passages and moving staircases only made matters worse.  
  
  
  
Her colourful earrings and quirky hairstyle had instantly caught his eye, setting her apart from the multitude of uniformed  students he’d already passed. It had been this otherness that had given him the courage to approach her and ask if she knew where the potions classroom was. She hadn’t known, but had offered to help look for it and had happily chatted to him about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.  
  
  
  
He’d found her rather likeable which made made it all the more nasty when he didn’t recognise her that time he met her behind the greenhouses. She approached him like one approaches an old friend, but he was utterly at a loss of where to put that tiny blonde girl with huge blue eyes. Even after she told him who she was, it was impossible to reconcile the sparkling girl he’d met with the average-looking first-year who stood in front of him. The hurt in her eyes made him feel like the worst person on earth.  
  
  
  
Years later working in Dumbledore’s Army—and wearing pink glittery radishes for earrings—she told him that her year mates had been giving her a hard time over her unusual appearance. It had become so bad that she’d decided some hair clips and earrings really weren’t worth all that trouble.  
  
  
  
Of course, Luna’d eventually forgiven him, but Neville doesn’t think he’d forgive himself for letting a friend down like this again. He shifts his weight from one side to the other and resists the urge to pull out his wand and cast a tempus charm. Apparently his newfound confidence only works when he has to face men turned into living nightmares; right now he is as nervous as he was at eleven just before boarding the Hogwarts Express.  
  
  
  
His memory of the train ride is hazy with swallowed tears. Overly aware of his grandmother’s gaze looking for him to live up to his parents’ legacy he’d been terrified of doing anything wrong. Right from the start he had expected to fail her and so he had felt no surprise, just a resigned internal sigh and maybe a pinch of triumph at having his fears confirmed when he lost Trevor.  
  
  
  
In the middle of friendly reunions Neville had stumbled from compartment to compartment, asking his new classmates for his toad instead of asking for their names as he’d imagined he would. Sometime during the search he’d apparently lost his sense of direction. Posing his question for what felt like the hundredth time he was met with mildly annoyed faces and a bushy haired girl who declared with authoritative voice much too big for her small frame that he had already asked them before, but not to worry because „I am Hermione Granger and this is Hannah Abbott. We will help you!“ And they did help him. Even their combined efforts had not been enough to locate the stray toad, but Neville had felt just a little less lost and a little less small getting off the train in their company.  
  
  
  
That would have been all the significance of this first meeting, if Hermione Granger had been anyone but herself. About a month later, eyes sparkling and victorious smile on her face, she had pulled him into a corner just outside the History of Magic classroom. „You seemed to have difficulties recognising us and I did some research. It took me ages to find the right book—wizarding neuroscience seems to be quite a bit behind—but I think I know what is wrong with you now …“  
  
  
  
The idea that the world he lives in looks different to others is hard to grasp, no matter how much time he’s had to get used to it. Looking up and down the alley now he sees so many faces and he wonders what it is he is missing. What is this hidden quality he can’t seem to perceive? What enables everyone else to get so much more information from the noses and mouths and eyes?  
  
  
  
But, he thinks, it is good to have a name to the feeling of otherness that has been a part of him for as long as he remembers. Being aware and able to put his finger to the differences has helped him expect and evade problematic situations. And of course Hermione has organised loads of reading material for him.  
  
  
  
Sometimes, though, not even extra awareness and attention could save him from making a fool of himself.  
  
  
  
After the battle of Hogwarts when the Infirmary had been full to bursting with the bleeding, the burned and the cursed, he had been sent to St. Mungo’s for a check-up. Sitting in the corridor and waiting for his turn with the diagnostic charms he’d felt strangely removed from the comings and goings of healers and patients. Less than a day ago he’d been fighting for his life and now— … yellowed walls and the smell of antiseptic potions.  
  
  
  
On the other side of the corridor sat an attractive blonde witch in a hospital gown. She had to be about his age and when she looked up into his eyes he’d surprised himself telling her: „Hi, I’m Neville. I killed a giant evil snake yesterday.“ It had to be the lack of sleep making him talk to strangers, combined with the endless relief that goes along with knowing that the monsters in your nightmares can no longer come and get you.   
  
  
  
She gave him a curious look, but didn’t laugh at him, instead smiling a warm amused smile. „Pleased to meet you, Neville. I’m Hannah.“  Hadn’t he thought that something about her stunning smile and expressive gestures felt familiar? It was the first time he had seen her off school grounds, wearing something else than the black uniform with a yellow trim. Ironic how he was now clueless without the black, when it had been irritating him for the many years it surrounded him.  
  
  
  
They talked about the war and about what it meant to grow up a pureblood and a halfblood; then about what it meant to be Welsh and the importance of leek for Welsh culture and if maybe perhaps the healers had forgotten about them. They kept talking, coming from leek to pansies, to a shared passion for gardening and he was so grateful that she didn’t think this was a big thing.  
  
  
  
He had learned to value Hannah long before he fell for her.  
  
  
  
During the DA meetings, after Padma Patil had broken his heart, Hannah had always made an effort to include him in her discussions with Ernie, so he could pretend to be interested in international wizarding relations while secretly trailing Padma with his eyes and reliving their shared moments.  
  
  
  
He remembered how she had sparkled that day in early autumn beside the lake, her lazy curls catching the sunlight like a gem; her smile lighting up as she looked at him and his insides melting at the sight. She had loved how when she mentioned her sister, he had had no idea who she was, had loved that to him she was just as unique as everyone else. But in the end loving one of his peculiarities had not been enough for her.  
  
  
  
Some weeks passed until one day, excitedly defending his opinion on standardised cauldrons, he realised that he didn’t know where Padma was in the crowded practice room. Hannah smiled at him then and he thought maybe it hadn’t been enough for him either.  
  
  
  
A bubbling smile sits below his ribs when he thinks of these heated discussions that have grown dear to him. No one can talk themselves into a rage over absolute trivialities the way Ernie does. He never knew amiable arguing like that from the Gryffindor common room—the possibility of a fight too high a risk for friends to take and the fight already boiling between those that were not.   
  
  
  
Musings on house characteristics are forgotten when a woman approaches, a skip in her step and blonde braids nodding over her shoulders. His throat goes dry as he anxiously watches her face for the  familiar flicker of recognition. In his nervousness he can’t seem to make it out and he is about to extend a cheerful hello when she steps past him and is greeted by a chorus of excited children who sound very much like someone promised them ice cream.  
  
  
  
Neville shoves his hands back into his pockets and lifts his shoulders, stretching his back and sweeping another look above the many heads. The sullen looking boy is still standing on the other side of the narrow alley, his worried forehead barely visible between levitating bags and toddlers on their parent’s shoulders. The carefree atmosphere is one he has not encountered in this street since the start of his second year and he drinks it in with equal parts of contentment and disbelief.  
  
  
  
The world he has lived in for the last years was nothing like this.  
  
  
  
His world was the one where Hannah returned to school after almost a year, easy smiles replaced by a storm raging dangerously close under the surface of her eyes. He tried to repay her favour of distraction, but her heartbreak was of the inoperable kind and what cure were games of darts and weak jokes against such a wound?  
  
  
  
Still, he stood by her as she hurled dart after dart as if they were curses, until the war reached the castle and there was no space left for games and jokes.  
  
Then he was by her side when she was organising supplies for students who had to go into hiding and she was by his when he offered himself up to protect a shaking child.  
  
  
  
Sometime in all the chaos the pointless arguments had returned and they earned them many irritated looks in the room that housed so many, yet was strangely devoid of sound. They both needed the relief of fighting about the better breakfast spread instead of for their safety; of fighting with a friend instead of fighting against grown-ups who should have been protectors.  
  
  
  
Her presence had become his refuge.  
  
  
  
Later, when they sat beside each other in the sun, watching as big blocks of stones placed themselves to fill the holes of curses and giant fists, he realised that he needs the stubborn set of her shoulders in peace as much as he had needed it going into battle.  
  
  
  
Another light head appears in the sea of shoppers and this time there is no uncertainty, because this woman is holding a pot of pansies in her hands. She smiles that smile at him and when she is close she leans in to kiss his cheek and says „I know you are no good with faces, so I thought I’d help you out.“   
  
  
  
His heart beats steadily in his chest now and across the street he can see the blond man’s face light up.  
  
  
  


the end

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
**Thousand thanks to PaulaTheProcaryote for beta reading and of course many many thanks to krazyboutharryginny for hosting this wonderful challenge!**  
  
  
  
_Prosopagnosia_ , the condition Neville has, is relatively common, affecting up to a striking 2-2,5 percent of the population. Even though it is known as face blindness, it doesn’t prevent anyone from visually seeing faces – it only affects the ability of the brain to refer to a collection of features as a whole, a face, and store/identify them combined as such. Especially developmental prosopagnosia (as opposed to acquired prosopagnosia) often goes undiagnosed as the people affected have never known another way of perceiving faces. Recent research suggests that the condition also affects this kind of combination in respect to other topics, for example causing difficulties recognising locations or other connected groups of facts. The additional difficulties do often affect childrens’ performance in school. These other aspects were what initially made me think Neville might have it.


End file.
